


That Was Then, This is Now

by CommaSplice



Series: Aegon Targaryen Memorial Library Universe [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, New Year's Eve, New Years, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes set on New Year's in Westeros a year before the events in Game of Stacks and a year later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Was Then, This is Now

  
* * *  
  
_Roose Bolton – Then_  
  
* * *  


Although the term most often applied to Crownlands University’s campus during Intersession was “deserted,” it was never entirely empty, not even on the eve of the New Year. The scientists and medical professors had experiments that needed tending, either by themselves or more likely by their graduate assistants. There were junior faculty members who took advantage of the lack of students to work on their books or articles. And there were always the slightly desperate doctoral students who never seemed to leave.

Roose Bolton fit into none of those categories, but he knew his presence would go unnoticed as long as he did nothing to distinguish himself. He was a careful man. He parked his unremarkable dark blue sedan in one of the more populated lots. He carried his leather satchel. If by some distant chance he should run into someone known to him, he would claim he was working on his book. It wasn’t as if anyone would ask to see inside the satchel. He was known for coming in on weekends and staying late. Most of his colleagues had fled to southron climes or to their families in any case. He dressed the way he normally did on weekends: khakis, a collared shirt, loafers. He looked what he was: a middle aged academic. 

The Justin Massey History Building was mercifully empty at this time of day. He went to the trouble of checking the floor which contained his office. The day was drawing in and he saw streetlamps flickering to life through the windows. Satisfied he wasn’t going to run into anyone, he took the staircase to the basement and using his lock picks, opened up the door to the disused tunnel that took him to the Aegon Targaryen Memorial Library’s basement.

Petyr Baelish was waiting for him at the other end. 

“Did anyone see you?”

“No,” Roose said shortly. 

Baelish led him up to the administrative suite. He unlocked the door to the director’s office. He was about to switch on the lights.

“If you turn those on, we’ll be visible to anyone walking or driving by.” 

“He has blinds to block the morning sun,” Baelish said after a moment. He pulled them down. “All right?”

Roose inspected the blinds himself. “Yes.” As the lights came on, he looked around. He had never been in the Library Director’s office before. It was like most upper administrative spaces. There were two leather club chairs facing a desk of cherry and walnut. The far wall was lined with handsome bookshelves out of the same wood as the desk. 

“There.” Baelish pointed to an old-fashioned wooden card catalog against the wall to the right. “Well, what do you think?”

Roose looked at the object and then at Baelish. “It’s a card catalog.”

“I know it’s a card catalog. I want you to use it to kill Rossart.” Baelish ran his hands over the wood in a caress.

“You are leaving your prints all over that.” He should have followed his instincts, Roose thought, and professed ignorance when the man had approached him. 

“You forget I work here. I’ve touched it before. Well?”

Roose supposed he had a point, but it indicated sloppy habits to him. He disliked and distrusted carelessness. “I think you should allow me to dispose of Rossart my own way.”

“It has to look like an accident.”

Roose retrieve a pair of disposable latex gloves from his satchel and slipped them on. He opened some of the drawers. “Surely these aren’t used anymore?” Every drawer he was chock full of cards. 

“It’s part of the old shelf list,” Baelish explained. “It was here when Chelsted was director. I wanted it when Rossart took over, but he refused to give it to me.”

Roose stared at him. “Wanted it for what?” 

“My office.”

He cast his eyes over the card catalog again. “Why?”

Baelish grew defensive. “Does it matter why I wanted it? People pay a good deal of money online for these.” Again he touched it. 

“It’s a piece of furniture whose purpose has passed.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What precisely did you have in mind? His desk is a good twelve feet from this. This is against a wall as well.”

“Rossart waters these plants every Wednesday at 9:00.” Baelish gestured to the philodendrons atop the card catalog. “He’ll be in tomorrow even though it’s the New Year. I thought you could somehow rig it to collapse on him.”

This was what came from dealing with amateurs. Roose suppressed a sigh and inspected the card catalog. “I didn’t bring the proper tools.”

“You said you were a professional.”

“I have never been asked to dispatch someone with a level before,” Roose snapped. 

Baelish seemed to be having difficulty keeping his temper as well. He told Roose to wait and he disappeared. He returned a few moments later carrying a large toolbox. “And don’t tell me I need to wear gloves; we’ve all used this before. It costs a bloody fortune to get maintenance in here to do anything.”

He held out the box of disposable gloves to Baelish. “Put a pair of those on.”

“I told you. I’ve touched—all right, all right.”

Roose set to work. It took longer to remove the plants and to take out the drawers than it did to loosen the screws and to shave the bottom of the leg so that the thing wobbled. Or rather it would have, were it not for Baelish’s incessant jibber jabbering. Roose listened with half an ear. Baelish was determined to be Library Director. He had grand plans for the library and he’d been hampered at every turn first with Chelsted and now with Rossart. Roose had to admit the end Baelish had arranged for Dr. Chelsted had a certain panache to it, but evidently Baelish had not factored in the deep pockets of Tywin Lannister, which had gone a long way in silencing any potential scandal. 

“Although it is ironic in a way,” Baelish was saying.

Roose gritted his teeth. “Baelish, I need you to hold this thing steady.”

“Oh, sorry. They were my whores, you see, so all the money Tywin Lannister gave to them to keep quiet wound up in my pocket. Why are you tightening it?”

“I was under the impression you wanted to murder Rossart and not merely destroy a piece of furniture.”

“There’s no need to get snippy.”

Roose thought there was every need. “If you want this monstrosity to collapse onto Rossart, then it needs to be stable enough to last until morning, and it needs to be able to bear the weight of the drawers and the plants.”

There was silence.

He took that to mean he could continue on with his work. 

Baelish continued to complain about his colleagues. He went on at some length about someone named Varys, who Roose did not know and then about Olenna Tyrell, who he knew casually. He didn’t particularly care about the obstacles to Baelish’s rise to power, or what passed for power in the man’s eyes, but he was being paid to do a job, and Roose was nothing if not professional.

Finally he slid out from underneath the card catalog. “Help me get everything back. Go carefully. It would be unfortunate if this thing fell on you before I was paid.”

They slid the drawers back in. Twice Baelish made him redo them. “They need to go back in order.”

“You are aware that when this collapses no one is going to notice.”

“I can tell they’re out of order and I guarantee any librarian coming in the room will too. Rossart’s a fool, but he’ll notice.”

“Very well.”

Baelish located a broom and swept up the shavings from underneath the card catalog. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Why?” He did, in fact, have plans for the evening. He would be taking a blonde divorcée to dinner and then to bed afterward. 

“If you wanted the company of a pretty young coed, I have any number of them who might help you ring in the New Year.”

Roose snapped the toolbox shut. “If you are thinking you are going to pay me off in whores, you would be wise to think again. Cash.” 

“I was merely being friendly.”

“I have never needed to pay for sex and I’m not about to start doing so now.”

Baelish’s eyes flashed. “Fine, I have your money here. Half now, half after, just like we agreed.”

“Good.” Roose took one last look at the card catalog. “It _is_ ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That in the process of you getting revenge, you are destroying one of the very things you covet so much.” Roose handed him the toolbox. “Happy New Year, Baelish.” He left the man to his plotting. His smile didn’t dissipate till long after he was well away from the library.

  
* * *

_Lancel Lannister– Now_

* * *

R’hllor knew all and forgave all. Lancel learned the prayers and the rituals. He read the books Melisandre gave him. It seemed so simple.

He knew his parents were worried. He was fine, he assured them. This was what he was meant to do. He needed clarity. R’hllor gave him clarity. 

“It’s a cult,” his father said desperately. “Tell me you haven’t given this woman any money.”

“It’s a religion going back thousands of years. I tithe. That’s all R’hllor demands.” It wasn’t quite true. Melisandre didn’t want his money; but she wanted his devotion and dedication. Lancel gave it to her unflinchingly. 

At first it was enough, but he began to miss his siblings. He wanted to go to Janei’s name day party, but it fell on one of the feast days. Melisandre told him the Lord of Light needed him more than his sister did. 

It was better this way. When he thought of his parents, he saw their faces, the disappointment and disgust that New Year’s when they’d learned he’d had an affair with Cersei.

R’hllor kept the dreams away.

Uncle Tywin came by to see him. “Your father is worried.” He cast a critical eye over the disarray in Lancel’s apartment. 

“I’m fine,” Lancel insisted. “Tell him I’m okay. I am where I need to be.” 

“Where you need to be is with your family, not with this crackpot religion and its naked harlot of a priestess.”

“Melisandre is not—”

Uncle Tywin cut him off. “Any religion which thinks Stannis Baratheon is a god, even for a moment, is not one worth following. Come home.” He said a good deal more, but Lancel refused to listen.

New Year’s was not significant for those who followed R’hllor, but it too fell on a feast day. Lancel was delegated to help with the preparations in Selyse Baratheon’s kitchen. Her tiny house was packed with the worshippers of R’hllor. He found the kitchen easily enough. It was the one room not crammed with acolytes. The sole occupant was Shireen Baratheon. She sat at the kitchen table reading a book. She looked different from the last time he’d seen her on Joffrey’s name day. She was taller, prettier. He knew his brother Willem, had a crush on her. He didn’t know why he was surprised to see her; she was Selyse’s daughter.

Shireen nodded at him and buried her face in her book. 

“Do you know where the platters are?”

“They’re in the lower left cupboard.”

He dug them out and started cutting up vegetables. “Why doesn’t your father come to the services anymore?”

“Daddy never believed in R’hllor. He only came because Melisandre asked him.”

Lancel carefully chopped a carrot into sticks. “Hugh said she used to believe he was Azor Ahai.” He heard her snort. He turned around. “Don’t you believe in R’hllor?”

“No.”

“He is the one true god.”

Shireen marked her place in her book. “If by some chance Mummy asks where I am, tell her I’m upstairs in my room.”

Lancel saw sadness and pain in her face. He had caused this somehow. He thought of the way his father had looked at him last New Year’s Eve, the way his eyes had darted from him to Cersei and then back again to Lancel, and then the crushing disappointment. “You don’t have to leave. I’ll stop talking.”

“Don’t you dare tell me about the one true god.”

He had never heard her sound so sharp before. “I’m sorry.”

“She’s a fake, you know.”

“What?”

“She has powders in her sleeves to make the smoke and the fire,” Shireen explained. “I’ve watched her. And she’s crazy. She’s worse than my mother. She uses people and she says it’s all in the name of her religion. She used Daddy. Melisandre made him care about her and then she dumped him just like that.” Shireen snapped her fingers.

Lancel stared at her. 

“This is Mummy’s sixth religion. She prays to these gods hoping for forgiveness, but none of them exist so she just keeps looking for a better god. It’s probably the ninth if you count all the different sects of the Seven.”

“Hugh—”

“It’s his third. They change religions the way other people change their clothes. It’s stupid.” Shireen bent down over her book and refused to talk to him anymore.

Lancel finished with the preparations and went back into the living room. Melisandre wore her red silk robes. She was beautiful as always and she took them through the prayers. He stood in the back and remembering what Shireen told him, he found his eyes kept wandering from her exotic face to her hands.

No one noticed when he left the room. He slipped into the bathroom and tried to think. His head was swimming with unwelcome feelings. 

_Smoke and mirrors, Uncle Tywin scoffed. This woman is a third-rate charlatan who can’t even do her day job correctly. You’ve been bewitched yet again by a pretty face and body. Your father is worried. Stop being a fool and come back where you belong._

He put the lid to the toilet seat down and sat, burying his face in his hands. He’d been such a fool. Time must have passed because someone was banging on the door. Feeling like he was on autopilot, he got up and left.

He returned to the kitchen, but Shireen wasn’t there. He spotted her sitting out on the patio in the back yard. He joined her. “You were right,” he said dully. “I watched her sleeves.”

Shireen had her hands thrust deep in her coat pockets.

“It’s really cold out here. Wouldn’t you be warmer inside?”

“They’re inside.” 

“I’ll tell your mother you’re in your room. I’m sure no one will mind.”

Shireen shook her head. “There are people in my room.”

Lancel realized her eyes were red rimmed. “People? Who?”

“I don’t know their names. It’s the man who smells like he spilled an entire bottle of Canoe on him and the woman with the crazy eyes.”

“Why are they in your room?”

Shireen leveled him with a look. “They’re having sex, okay? In my bed. I can’t go up there.” Her voice cracked.

“I’ll get your mother.”

“Don’t bother.” Shireen sniffled. “I already told her. She’s too busy chanting to stupid R’hllor. Melisandre said she’ll make them stop after this last set of prayers. Even if she does, how am I supposed to sleep in there now?”

Lancel sat down next to her. 

“I’ve never been enough for my mother,” she said in a quieter, flatter voice.

Lancel didn’t know what to say.

“Mummy doesn’t see me when she looks at me. It’s like I’m not there.” Shireen wiped her eyes. “I hate it here. She’s getting worse. Melisandre is making her worse. Daddy says there’s nothing we can do. I keep hoping Melisandre will leave, but Asha said there aren’t any jobs up North and she said Melisandre isn’t stupid enough to go without a job.” 

Lancel remembered what Shireen had said in the kitchen. “Why does your mother need forgiveness?”

Shireen put her gloves back on. “She wanted a boy.” She kicked her feet against the ground. “I was the only baby she could have. I wasn’t enough and she thinks she did something wrong.”

Lancel remembered the desperate way Selyse said the prayers. Did he look like that?

“What did you do? Why are you following R’hllor?”

He started and then stopped. Despite the wisdom in her eyes, Shireen was just a kid. She was a kid who had too much pain of her own for him to add to it. “I did something stupid,” he managed. He saw Cersei’s beautiful mocking face then. “It was a mistake and everyone I love knows. I can’t stand the way they look at me. I feel so ashamed. Uncle Tywin told me to come home, but I—”

“I spend weekends there now,” Shireen commented. She sounded resigned. 

“With Uncle Tywin? Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I go with Myrcella and Tommen. I think it’s because Aunt Cersei is living with us now.”

Lancel suddenly wondered if Shireen knew too. 

“It’s very quiet there.” Shireen kicked her feet against the back of the chair. “Mr. Lannister doesn’t talk much.”

“Uncle Tywin?”

“Yes.”

No, she didn’t know. Lancel thought she must be wrapped up in her problems as much as he was in his. 

“If your family loves you, why does it matter if they know?” Shireen stopped swinging her feet. “What if you told them you were sorry and that you won’t do it anymore?”

“It wasn’t that kind of mistake.”

“If they love you, they won’t care.” 

Lancel glanced back at the house.

“They’re in that last stupid chant. It goes on for the next half hour. Just go.” Shireen fumbled with the top button on her coat. “Maybe you should screen your calls for a few weeks too. I think sometimes Melisandre goes after the people who try to leave. She takes her clothes off and gets all breathy about R’hllor so they’ll come back.” Shireen sounded disgusted. 

He could talk to Father and Uncle Tywin. They would know what to do. “What about you?”

“I spend most of the week here. It wasn’t so bad before when Melisandre was dating Daddy, but now she’s with my mother and it’s gotten worse. I don’t get to go back for two more days.” She inhaled. “It will be okay. Maybe I can sleep on the floor.”

Lancel thought she was putting a brave face on it. “Does your father know this is going on?” He gestured to the house and all the cars in the driveway. 

Shireen shook her head.

He couldn’t leave her here. “You’re coming with me.”

When they arrived at her father’s house, Shireen seemed doubtful. “Daddy’s not expecting me.”

Lancel considered how his father and Uncle Tywin would handle this. He got out of the car, aware that Shireen was following him with trepidation. He rang the doorbell. It took a very long time for anyone to answer. 

“Hi. Can I help—Kiddo?” A woman with dishwater blonde hair peered past him onto the porch at Shireen. “What the fu—hell? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” Shireen looked miserable. “No, I’m not.”

“May I speak to her father? I’m Lancel Lannister.”

“Sure. I’m Asha. Come in.”

It felt like they were intruding. He was horrified to see Cersei step into the room. Her hair was down and she looked annoyed. She saw him and her face darkened, not with anger but with shame? There was an older guy with the beard who seemed embarrassed. Everyone’s clothes were mussed. 

And then they saw Shireen, who was trying not to cry.

“Kiddo, come here. You’re safe now.” 

Lancel went outside on the porch with Stannis and talked to him at length. It was freezing, but he kept going. Through the window, he saw Shireen being hugged by Asha. Cersei and the man with the beard were leading her to the sofa and they were clustered around her. 

“You were right to bring her home. I knew her mother wasn’t doing well, but I had no idea how badly the situation had deteriorated.”

“I don’t think Shireen wanted to worry you.”

Stannis looked at him. “I don’t know how involved you are with Melisandre, but—”

“I think I’m about to become very uninvolved. Shireen said I should go home.” He swallowed.

“Would you like to stay here?” Stannis asked stiffly.

Cersei wouldn’t want him here. And he didn’t think it would be a good idea for him to be near her either. Lancel suddenly wanted to be with his parents more than anything. “Thank you, but I think . . . I need my family now. Will you tell Shireen thank you for me?”

“Of course.” Stannis moved toward his front door. “I don’t believe in the gods, but it’s the New Year. Make a fresh start. You are right to go home to your family.”

Lancel thought Stannis might be right. His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Happy New Year.”

* * *  
  
_Ros – Now_  
  
* * *  


Ros stretched out her long legs and hit a pile of dirty laundry with her foot. She reached over to the nightstand to find her phone and somehow knocked over two beer bottles. Beside her, Bronn groaned.

Forewarned, she looked before she put her feet down. It really wasn’t as bad as all that. The beer bottles were from last night after they’d run out of vodka. She glanced over at the clothes now littering his floor. Judging by the basket and the bottle of detergent, it looked like he’d been preparing for a trip to the Laundromat. The rest of the room was fairly tidy. Still, she stepped tentatively as she padded to the bathroom. 

Ros flicked on the light in Bronn’s bathroom. It was cleaner than she expected. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was nearly thirty and all she had to show for it were a dead-end job as a clerk in a library that was falling apart; an anonymous apartment in a cookie-cutter complex; and a string of one night stands.

Bronn was not supposed to happen. She thought she had learned her lesson. Mamma always said “don’t shit where you eat,” and Ros had broken that rule with Dr. Petyr Baelish time and time again. It was the reason why she’d spent far too many hours this December with the police assuring them she had no idea where the weasel and rat bastard had got to. 

And the depressing thing was, she still couldn’t say why she had hooked up with Petyr in the first place. He wasn’t very good in bed. Multiple times over the last two or three years, he’d moaned “Cat” when he’d climaxed. Until she had met Dr. Stark’s wife, she just thought he had some weird feline fetish. Ros still remembered how demeaning it had felt when she met Dr.Stark’s wife, and realized Petyr had been using her as a stand-in all those times.

For the past three weeks, the feeling had deepened into abject embarrassment. Not only was he using her, but he was a pimp and a murderer and now a fugitive from justice. She’d been approached by a couple of the tabloids with offers to tell her story. Before she could accept any of them, there had been a really unpleasant meeting with Tywin Lannister. She took the check he offered her, and tried to shrug off the disgust he clearly felt for her. The money would pay off her student loans, this year’s tuition at Rosby, and she’d have a little left over for her rainy day fund too. 

But now here she was again, shitting where she ate. True, Bronn’s office was at least on the other side of the building, but they worked in the same place. He was a librarian and she was a clerk. This could get really uncomfortable, really fast if she didn’t handle it just right.

After Ros found some towels and showered, she went in search of her clothes. They were scattered all over his apartment. As she collected them, a shoe here, a stocking there, she noticed that aside from the evidence of their coupling last night, he was fairly neat for a man. The apartment was very nice actually. He lived like a grownup. The only thing that gave her pause was the gaming system by the very large flat screen, but these days that was almost a prerequisite with most guys.

Ros spotted his shirt flung by his stereo. She picked it up and literally uncovered a large collection of vinyl. As she flicked through the albums, she decided he had good taste in music.

In the background, she could hear the sounds of him getting up and then taking his own shower. 

She didn’t know why she was surprised at his apartment. Ros did payroll. She knew what he made. He was in systems so he was fairly well paid. She didn’t see any photographs of family or friends. She was pretty sure he was as unattached as she was. Still, she would have to be careful. She would thank him for the evening and assure him she had no expectations.

She found everything but her dress. When she went back into the bedroom, it was draped on a chair. Ros threw it over her arms and wriggled into it. The dress had cost her more than she could afford, but she was aware how it showed her figure to advantage. The only problem was the zipper always gave her a terrible time. She was contorting herself trying to zip it up when she heard Bronn.

“Let me.”

“Thanks.” This was the awkward part. He wasn’t some anonymous guy. She worked with him.

“I’ll go make some coffee,” he offered. 

They ended up sitting on bar stools at the island in his kitchen. 

“Where did you learn to sing?” It slipped out before she could stop herself. 

Bronn looked alarmed. 

“You don’t remember?” First she ended up being a killer’s fuckbuddy, now she was with yet another co-worker who didn’t even remember sleeping with her.

“I remember parts of last night,” Bronn said cautiously. “I ran into you at Connington’s. And then I came home with you, but there’s a gap in between.” He sipped more coffee as if hoping the caffeine would restore his memory. 

“Karaoke.”

Bronn’s face grew paler. 

“You insisted we go to a karaoke lounge.”

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

Ros couldn’t resist smiling. “You were good.”

“How many songs?”

“Three.” Ros tried to recall what he’d sung. “Uh, something called ‘I Believe’ and then ‘What Becomes of the Brokenhearted.’ Then you finished with ‘The Rains of Castamere.’”

The groans grew louder. 

Ros didn’t know why he was so upset. “You have a nice voice.”

“If Tyrion finds out, I will never live it down.”

“He sang ‘The Rains of Castamere’ with you,” Ros informed him.

“Seven hells.” Bronn shrugged it off after a moment. “At least I ended up with you.”

It was an unexpectedly gallant thing to say. “That’s very sweet of you.” Ros pushed her cup away. “Look, I won’t make trouble. We were just two unattached people who—”

“Who sang it better?”

Ros’ seemingly carefree smile grew strained. “What?”

Bronn got off the bar stool and rummaged around in his refrigerator. He produced whole wheat bread, butter, and jam. “Who was better? Tyrion or me?”

He was going to make her breakfast, she realized. With most of the men she dated, she was lucky if she was allowed to get fully dressed before they shut the door behind her. “You did. Although Tyrion was very enthusiastic. I think Alys recorded part of it on her phone.”

Bronn inhaled.

“There’s video of you in full armor fighting Olenna’s grandson with a sword,” Ros said puzzled. “That didn’t bother you and this does? If anyone should be worried, it’s Tyrion.”

He started to reply and then shrugged. “You might be right. Eggs? I have a waffle iron around here somewhere.” 

“You can make waffles?” No, it was too much to believe. 

Bronn shrugged again. “I was a short order cook for a while. I could make pancakes. Crepes, we’d have to wait a while for. The batter needs to rest.”

“Can you make eggs over medium?”

“Aye.” Bronn set to work. “Did I do anything else? Run naked through the streets of King’s Landing? Clock a cop?”

Her smile grew wider. He was a very funny guy. There was never any question about his wit. “That must have been with some other girl.”

He chuckled, but then turned serious as he plated her eggs. He handed the dish to her and waited.

“Perfect.” They were. The whites were firm and the yolks were slightly runny. “They’re never right when I get them out.”

“They’re tricky,” he acknowledged. He cracked two more eggs into a bowl and scrambled them. “Do you have plans for today?”

Here it was. She needed to sound casual. A line from one of the songs her mother used to play a lot came back to her— _you leave them laughing when you go_ —that was her, smiling Ros. “I’ll call my mother. She lives up North. I have some errands to run.” She swallowed more coffee to hide the misstep. It was New Year’s; what kind of errands could she claim to be doing?

“Laundry?”

Ros blinked.

“That’s what I had planned. Laundromats always seem to be open no matter what the day is. You too?”

It was actually something she had intended to do. 

“We,” Bronn paused as he ate a forkful of eggs and then continued, “could do it together. Maybe go to a movie after? Catch a bite.”

It was an invitation, she realized, a carefully worded, seemingly impromptu invitation. She didn’t respond right away.

The moment passed. 

She thought she saw a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but then he turned to his eggs. 

“You don’t have to,” Ros told him. “I know what this was. I don’t expect anything.”

“Still not over Dr. Twatbeard?”

Ros flinched. It wasn’t a direct hit. Nothing about Bronn was direct. He wasn’t one to march straight into anything, but it still hurt. “I’m not the girl guys get hung up on.” It came out more sadly than she meant it to. “Sometimes it’s hard,” she said. “I get lonely just like anyone else and Petyr was there. He never really promised anything. He dangled hope in front of me like it was gold and I reached for it even though I knew it was just tinfoil spray painted yellow. And then it would be 3:17 in the morning and I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I would swear I’d never fall for it again. But the next time would come and I would reach for it just the same.” She stared into the depths of her coffee mug. “I wouldn’t have been with him if I had known half the shit he was doing.” 

“Ros—”

She took a breath. “You don’t have to be nice to me. I’m not going to make trouble.”

Bronn absorbed this. “I still need to do laundry.”

She did too. 

“And I’m not the guy the girls take a fancy to either.” He salted his eggs. “I’m the funny one, the sidekick, but I like you and I need clean shorts. So why don’t we start with the Laundromat and see where the day goes?” He poured her more coffee. 

Ros inspected the invitation for traps. It was an honest offer. “I would like that.”

He raised his coffee cup. “To clean shorts and a fresh start for both of us.”

"To a Happy New Year without any karaoke.”

  
* * *  
  
_Rickon Stark – Then_  
  
* * *

His father’s face was a mixture of anger and bafflement. “How could you do this?”

“I didn’t know the fire would spread so fast,” Rickon explained.

“You poured gasoline all over Mr. Liddle’s greenhouse, Rickon, and then you lit a match. What did you think would happen?”

“I thought it would explode like it does in the movies.”

Dad gave up then. Or rather his father sent him to his room while he and Mum talked about what to do. 

Rickon initially went to his room, but slipped out almost immediately. He wanted to hear what they were saying about him. The first part wasn’t important. It would be Mum and Dad wondering what they had done wrong. Rickon wasn’t like his brothers and sisters. He wasn’t tall and strong like Robb or Jon. He wasn’t book smart like Bran. He certainly wasn’t sweet like Sansa and he lacked the determination that burned within Arya. Not that his parents would ever say that, but Rickon was certain it was something they believed.

He didn’t dislike Mr. Liddle. He was a nice enough man, even if he did prefer to keep to himself and even if no one had been inside his house in living memory. It was just that he had the empty greenhouse. It was set apart from everything. It wasn’t like Mr. Liddle used it. It was just filled with old terracotta pots and seed catalogs. 

His parents were getting to the good part, when Rickon felt someone lifting him off the floor. Robb unceremoniously dumped him back in his room.

“What in the seven hells were you doing?”

He recovered his equanimity. “Listening,” Rickon said simply. 

Bran, Sansa, and Arya slipped into the room one by one.

“If you were in the service, this would have gotten you a dishonorable discharge,” Robb told him.

Rickon was of the opinion that Robb was a little too full of himself, just because he was a soldier and was home on leave. “They’d kick you out for eavesdropping?”

“No, you dumbass,” Bran hissed. “You blew up Mr. Liddle’s greenhouse.”

“I didn’t blow it up. I just set fire to it.”

“It’s still a felony,” Sansa informed him.

“I’m a juvenile,” Rickon protested. 

Bran frowned. “Maybe it would be a misdemeanor?”

They all turned to Arya.

“Why is everyone looking at me?”

Sansa picked up one of Rickon’s _Guns & Ammo_ magazines off the chair so she could sit. “Because you’re the one who got arrested.”

“I was escorted home by the police; I was not arrested,” Arya retorted. “Nobody pressed any charges and it doesn’t make me an authority on what happens when your kid brother blows up the next door neighbor’s greenhouse.”

“How can they sell this kind of thing to a child?” Sansa held up the _Guns & Ammo_ magazine. 

“The guy at the convenience store sells him _Hustler_ ,” Bran pointed out. 

“ _You buy porn_?!” Sansa was appalled.

Rickon crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not buy porn.”

“What do you call that stack of magazines under your bed?” Bran wanted to know.

Before anyone could stop her, Arya dragged them out.

“I steal them.”

“Oh my gods,” Sansa wailed. 

“From Robb,” Rickon finished.

Now his eldest brother turned beet red.

“This is really gross stuff,” Arya pronounced. She paged through them. “Nobody’s tits are that big without surgery.”

Robb tried to reach for the magazines, but she was too quick for him. 

“They’re in Rickon’s room. Bran knew where they were. They were yours originally and you’ve read them. Theon probably has too. It seems to me,” Arya suggested, as she held up a centerfold for everyone to see, “that this is family porn now.”

“I cannot be related to any of you.” Sansa held up a hand to shield herself from the centerfold. “Arya, put that away. Bleach, I need bleach.”

Arya flipped to another page and showed it to all of them. “This lady must be double-jointed.”

Robb’s finely honed military reflexes kicked in. He ripped the magazine out of Arya’s hand and grabbed the rest of them. “We do not have family porn. You had no right to take those out of my room.”

“I wonder what your commanding officer would say if he knew about the dime bag we found under your floorboards,” Rickon said sweetly.

“He’d probably tell me to pass the joint around,” Robb muttered. “Forget the family porn and my pot. You blew up the neighbor’s greenhouse. Why?”

“I _wanted_ to blow up the neighbor’s greenhouse. It didn’t work.”

Sansa stared at him in horror. “He’s a sociopath. I’m related to a sociopath.”

“Well, you should know; you were dating one.”

“Do not remind me about Joffrey Baratheon, Arya. Gods, he is such a shit.” Sansa folded her arms. “What do you have against Mr. Liddle?”

“I don’t have anything against him. He never used the greenhouse. It’s not near the house or the garage. I was watching one of those old movies with that guy.” He blanked on the name. “The one who was in the movie where they take over the ship and he’s a cook and he has to stop them.”

Robb set the stack of porn down. “Steven Segal? _Under Siege_?”

“Yeah. Only, it isn’t that one. I can’t remember the title. I saw it last break when we were at Uncle Brandon’s. The guy made a bomb out of gasoline and some other stuff. It didn’t look too hard what he was doing. I did it just like he did in the movie, but it just burned it down. There was no explosion.” He saw his brothers and sisters exchanging glances. “Everyone’s acting like Mr. Liddle’s greenhouse was something he used. Half the windows were broken and it was empty.” 

Sansa stood up. She pulled one of Rickon’s old stuffed toys from off a bookshelf. 

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t use this anymore, do you?”

“That’s Shaggydog. Put him down.”

“But you don’t play with him.” Sansa held out her hand to Bran. “Give me your lighter. Don’t look at me like that. I know you’ve been smoking.” She waited until Bran gave the Zippo lighter to her. “I’ve always wanted to see what would happen if we burned one of these.”

Robb coughed. “Uh, Sansa.”

She ignored him. “So, Rickon, you won’t mind if we set Shaggydog on fire.”

Rickon threw himself on her and wrested his stuffed direwolf away from her. 

“ _That_ is what you did wrong.”

“Oh.”

“Can I have my lighter back now?” Bran asked.

“No. You shouldn’t smoke and if I catch you at it again, it’ll be Summer I burn next.” Sansa smoothed her hair. “If you’ll excuse me.” They watched her saunter elegantly out of the room.

“The bitch is cold,” Arya pronounced.

“Do not call Sansa a bitch,” Robb ordered. “But yeah, that was uh, harsh. My CO is a teddy bear next to her.” He too stood and picked up the stack of magazines. “I’m taking these. I’m going to go to my room and see what else you delinquents have stolen. I want everything back before nightfall.”

Arya was next to leave; she was going out with some friends to the movies. Bran tried to play it cool, but Rickon knew he was going to make sure Summer was well hidden from Sansa.

Alone in his room now, Rickon hugged Shaggydog to himself one more time. Then he set him back on the shelf. He went downstairs. “I need to apologize to Mr. Liddle,” he announced.

Dad came with him. Mr. Liddle didn’t let them inside. No one ever got invited into Mr. Liddle’s house. They stood on the covered porch while Rickon said he was sorry. Then he waited and listened uneasily as Dad and Mr. Liddle worked out how Dad was going to make restitution. He didn’t know a greenhouse could cost so much. 

Although it wasn’t explicitly stated, Rickon had an unhappy feeling that his allowance would be going toward the debt for the remainder of his adolescence and probably well beyond. 

“I didn’t mean to burn it down,” he said to Mr. Liddle. “I wanted to blow it—”

“Rickon!”

“A Molotov cocktail would have done a better job,” Mr. Liddle informed him. “Simpler too.” He then went into great technical detail about where Rickon had probably gone wrong with his efforts in creating an explosive device. 

Rickon noticed his father looking uneasily at Mr. Liddle.

“Do not get any ideas,” Dad informed Rickon as they walked back. “I have to put the four of your through university. I cannot afford any more experiments.”

Rickon nodded. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Good.” Dad turned up the path to the front door. He stopped suddenly. “Rickon, these tendencies you have. They’re not going to lead you to a good place. Tomorrow marks the start of the New Year. It’s a chance to start fresh.”

“Got it.”

“I hope you do. If not, I’m not going to stop Sansa from sacrificing Shaggydog to the altar of improving your understanding.” 

Rickon stared at him. “You were listening to us?”

Dad cuffed Rickon on the head. “You’re not the only one who can eavesdrop, lad.” He took a look at the house. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some cigarettes, marijuana, and ‘family porn’ to confiscate.”

“Happy New Year, Dad.”

* * *


End file.
